


What Married People Do

by Dirty_Corza



Series: Come Out Ahead [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/pseuds/Dirty_Corza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[The title is misleading]</p><p>For the prompt: John is tied up. Sherlock comes in, dispatches the baddies, but doesn't release John just yet, wink wink.</p><p>PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO WARNINGS this is a noncon/dubcon fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Married People Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Valeria!

John didn't struggle against his bonds. He waited. Eyes kept low, he watched his captors and waited, paying attention to the slightest movements they made, tracking them as people went into the room, as people left. In his mind, he kept track of the time, counting down the seconds to when Sherlock would come after him.

There was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock would come after him. Sherlock knew exactly where he had gone, and it was Sherlock who had given John the time limit, saying "If anything goes wrong, I'll be there in three hours. Don't worry. Just trust me." Taking Sherlock at his word was probably a ridiculous idea, only slightly trumped by the belief that Sherlock would be able to succeed where he had failed. 

He was a soldier, after all, trained for combat, trained for situations like this. If he couldn't infiltrate a makeshift base in the heart of London, why did he believe Sherlock would be able to? He sighed, frowning as a new set of feet came into the room. The shoes were to nice to be anyone working as part of the outfit, far too nice when compared to the others in the room, and vaguely familiar. His mental clock had already run down, Sherlock was supposed to be here now. But if Sherlock was here, John would have heard some fighting, wouldn't he?

The shoes walked closer to him, steady, confident steps, and fingers placed themselves under his chin, angling his face up to look into the eyes of the newest conspirator. His heart shuddered in his chest as he saw who it was, a nervous gulp as his eyes made contact. They were Sherlock's, but they weren't. There was something in them that hadn't been there before. It sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

"No." his voice was silent, the word never getting a chance to leave his lips as Sherlock grinned, leaning down to press soft lips against his cheeks.

"Such a good little pet. I had worried they wouldn't be able to capture you. From what I saw of the number of men you injured, it was pure luck they managed it." Sherlock's tongue was pressed against his skin now, tasting and John shut his eyes, shaking his head, trying to resist but he couldn't move. His hands were secure behind his back, his legs firmly tied to the legs of the chair. There was nothing he could do to get away from those lips, that tongue, that mouth that was whispering betrayals in his ear.

"Tsk tsk, John." Sherlock gave him a harsh bite along his jaw, causing him to gasp with the sharp pain of it. "Thinking you could get away now, when I have you right where I want you?" John shuddered at the words, only growing still when he felt the press of steel against his throat.

The knife was pulled slowly, carefully down, only teasing John with its sharpness before the tip hooked its edge under the top button of his shirt. John's breath caught as he waited for it, wincing at the ever so slight clatter of the button hitting the floor. He gasped as more buttons followed, and Sherlock's mouth followed the path as the knife revealed his skin.

His lips were gentle as they pressed over John's chest, a moment of tenderness John hadn't thought to expect. His mind wasn't accepting any of it, trying to fight his senses, insist that there was something he was missing. Either this wasn't Sherlock, or there was something more that John was missing. He whimpered as Sherlock's lips moved to trace the jagged edge of his scar, body fighting the insistence of his mind that this was a bad thing.

"Th-that's not... Sherlock." John was pleading with him, though he couldn't tell himself what he was pleading for.

"Shhh..." Sherlock pressed the flat of the blade against his lips. His cold eyes met John's for a moment before he broke away from the accusatory gaze. The knife withdrew soon after, and john could feel the edge grazing his skin as Sherlock cut apart his shirt at the seams, discarded fabric forming a growing pile on the floor. 

His shoes and socks were taken off the normal way, but any hope that it would end there was dashed as John felt Sherlock running the blade along the inseam of his trousers. The delicate way Sherlock worked on him, the soft kisses, the gentle tongue that lapped up every drop of blood accidentally spilled, John had no hope that this would leave him whole.

John found himself lifting his hips when Sherlock tugged on the fabric of his trousers, found himself biting back a moan as Sherlock let the knife trace along his cock through the thin fabric of his pants.

"You can't help but enjoy this, isn't that right, John? Knowing I'm on my knees before you, feeling my hot breath against your thigh, so close to your cock. You've imagined this before in the flat, thrusting into my mouth. You imagined fucking me, too. But that won't happen. Not today, at least. But if you're a good boy, John, I'll fuck you." John's gasp was audible, his hips arching toward that face in their eagerness. "Oh yes, John, you never thought about that before. 'I'm not gay' you'd say. Thinking of a man on his knees sucking you off, that you could explain away, a mouth is a mouth. Even fucking me, it still put you on top, in the masculine role. Wishful thinking there, John. And I'll just have to prove it to you." 

The blade slipped under the edge of his pants, then, slicing through the fabric with ease, only taking a few seconds to make the necessary cuts to reveal John completely, to bare him to Sherlock's scrutiny. And to Sherlock's mouth. His breath was hot against John's cock, his tongue a delicious friction, and it brought a sob from John's throat. 

"Sherlock, please, I cant-"

"No, John. You will."

John couldn't stop the tears that fell from his cheeks as Sherlock stroked his cock with his tongue, couldn't stop the broken sobs with every spark of pleasure that ran up his spine. His sobs only seemed to urge Sherlock on, soon engulfing him completely, fingers caressing his balls, as if each touch was calculated to bring John pleasure, to bring him to completion.

"No, Sherlock, no!" John cried out, the orgasm forced from him as his sobs became heavier, his chin falling to his chest, the fight draining from his body in that instant.

Sherlock's face pressed against his thigh when he was finished, and John's eyes opened wide at the feel of dampness on those cheeks. Sherlock was staring up at him, tears in his eyes, mouth barely forming the words "I'm sorry" though he didn't speak them. He wiped the tears away on John's thighs before standing, his face once again stoic and cold. 

"Until next time, John." He walked out the door, leaving John alone and shivering in the room, with nothing but the piles of shredded cloth that once was his clothing at his feet.


End file.
